One False Move

by Robert Goddard

  ‘I think you’re overestimating the powers of our lawyers, Roger. And how would that help Joe anyway? He’s who we’re after. If we can’t get him, Vogler’s no use to us.’

  ‘OK, OK. That’s true. I’m just trying to account for Carl’s disappearance. Where did he and Vogler go for dinner?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere not far from here with a Michelin star.’

  ‘The Driftwood. Near Portscatho. I’ve eaten there. It’s a hotel as well as a restaurant. Let’s go there now and confirm they turned up. Who knows what we might find out?’

  I don’t argue. Doing something is better than doing nothing. I find myself wondering if Vogler really has been arrested. Maybe Carl too, in some kind of ridiculous mix-up. Not Marianne, though. I’m certain she left Admiral’s Reach last night with no intention of returning any time soon.

  I follow Roger’s directions up the main road for several miles, then off along narrow lanes to the coast and the Driftwood Hotel.

  We park and go into Reception, where we have to do some fast talking before we’re given confirmation that Conrad Vogler – a regular patron – dined in the restaurant last night. And there’s not much doubt his companion was Carl. Mrs Vogler wasn’t with her husband – as I already knew, of course. There’s nothing else they can tell us.

  We sit in the car outside and swap theories about what could have happened to Carl. None of the theories are convincing – or reassuring. Roger suggests a drink will help us think. I don’t argue with that. We drive down to Portscatho and sit outside the pub in the centre of the village.

  My least disturbing idea remains that Carl was somehow caught up in Vogler’s arrest. Roger gently points out that he’d surely have been able to talk his way out of that by now and would then have contacted me. Except he can’t contact me, of course. A call on my new phone to the hotel in St Mawes swiftly establishes they’ve heard nothing from him, however, so we’re still a long way from any kind of plausible explanation for his disappearance.

  ‘Maybe you should inform the police,’ Roger suggests at last. ‘If you’re seriously worried about him. Though he hasn’t been gone long, so I’m not sure they’d even classify him as missing in any technical sense. Does he have a wife or girlfriend you could check with to see if he’s been in touch?’

  ‘He’s not married. Beyond that, I don’t really know. We’re colleagues, not friends. And I’ve lost his number along with my phone.’

  ‘Tricky. I—’ Roger’s phone rings at that point. It’s Nick Brown, the solicitor. But the connection’s evidently not great. Roger heads off across the village square in search of better reception. I watch him pacing up and down as he speaks, with the phone clamped to his ear.

  He comes back to where I’m sitting about five minutes later. ‘OK,’ he begins. ‘There’s good news and bad news.’

  ‘I’ll take the good first,’ I say. ‘I could use some.’

  ‘Right. Well, they haven’t charged Joe with anything, though Brown thinks they will if he starts demanding to be released. It looks like they’ll go easy on him if he agrees to cooperate and provide as much detail as he can on Vogler’s activities.’

  ‘And has he agreed?’

  ‘That’s the bad news. He wants Brown to get hold of Duncan Forrester. Which Brown can’t do, of course. Joe says he isn’t making any decisions until he’s spoken to Duncan.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’

  Roger smiles ruefully. ‘He can be infuriating at times.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Find Duncan, I suppose.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘No idea. Except …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We could try Kolonn Drogh. The cottage I showed you from the river. You remember I told you I’d seen Joe there once. Well, I’m just wondering if it could be some hideaway Duncan uses. I mean, I know it’s a long shot, but …’

  ‘Long shots are all we’ve got?’

  Roger nods. ‘Seems like it.’

  ‘And you know how to get there?’

  He nods again. ‘I do.’

  Back on the main road, we follow a narrow, winding lane across the peninsula to Philleigh. Just beyond the village, Roger has me turn off on to an even narrower lane with high hedges and a ridge of grass down the centre. The tarmac gives way to fractured concrete, then bare earth with plenty of puddles and deep wheel-ruts.

  A band of woodland appears ahead. The track becomes muddier as we enter the shadow of the trees. I glimpse water off to our left: the weak sun glints on a finger of creek. Then, as the wood thins, there’s a fence bordering a field overgrown with weeds and thorns and the roofline of the cottage, visible over the swell of the land. And a five-bar gate, closed across the track.

  I pull up short of the gate. Roger jumps out, unlatches it and swings it open. I drive through and stop. The track continues ahead round a bend towards the cottage.

  Twenty metres or so away, in the middle of the track, blocking the route, is a large, mud-spattered four-wheel-drive car. And I feel as if I recognize it.

  Roger sees the car as well. Instead of getting back in, he walks round to talk to me through the window. ‘Looks like someone’s got here ahead of us,’ he says, keeping his voice low.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s Vogler’s car,’ I respond.

  ‘How sure?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t memorize the registration number, but it’s the right model and colour.’

  ‘Could be a coincidence. There are a lot of four-by-fours around here.’ He pauses, then says, ‘Let’s take a look.’

  ‘Is that a good idea? Maybe we should call the police.’

  ‘We can call them if it looks like we need to.’

  ‘OK.’ I nod, take the key from the ignition and get out.

  The silence of our surroundings pounces on my senses. The wood behind us seems to be holding its breath. There isn’t even the hint of a breeze.

  We start walking towards the 4WD. Suddenly, a pheasant bursts explosively into flight from the undergrowth. I physically jump in shock.

  ‘Steady,’ says Roger softly, touching my arm. ‘It’s only a bird.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  We walk on. With each step towards the 4WD, I feel more certain it is Vogler’s. The cottage looks empty. But someone could be watching us from one of the windows and we’d never know.

  We reach the 4WD. There’s a Barbour jacket thrown across the rear seat, partly obscuring some letters and papers. On one of the envelopes I can see half of an address. Reach. Road. Mawes. There’s no doubt, then. It does belong to Vogler.

  ‘What d’you make of this?’ asks Roger, pointing to some dark red smears on the rear bumper.

  I look at them. My first instinct, which I don’t really want to trust, is that they’re smears of blood. ‘Not sure,’ I reply.

  ‘There’s something under a tarpaulin in the stowage area.’ Roger peers in, then jerks his head back. ‘There’s blood on the floor beyond the edge of the tarp. And this is blood on the bumper as well.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Try the driver’s door.’

  I move to the front of the car and pull the door handle. It opens. I see a half-finished pack of mints lying down by the pedals. Why I notice them I’m not sure. But I do. ‘It’s not locked.’ My voice falters as I speak the words.

  ‘Stay there,’ says Roger. He doesn’t explain why he wants me to. But he doesn’t have to. He opens the tailgate. Then he reaches in and lifts the tarpaulin.

  I see the expression on his face twist with horror. He lets the tarpaulin fall back into place, covering what he’s just seen.

  I take a step towards him, but he says, ‘No,’ and moves quickly towards me. He’s trying to shield me, I assume, from the reality of what’s there. But I want to know. I need to know.

  He pulls something out of an inside pocket of his jacket as he closes on me. It looks at first glance like a TV remote. He’s still the same concerned, protective Roger I thin
k I know. I have no presentiment of danger. I haven’t the slightest expectation that he’s going to do what he does.

  He jams the device into my chest. There’s a jolt, followed by a bolt of pain. I’m falling. My limbs are rubbery. My muscles refuse to obey me. My brain’s scrambled.

  He catches me as I fall. ‘I’ve got you,’ I hear him say through a fog of pain. He kicks the driver’s door wide open behind me, pulls my raincoat off and half lifts, half lowers me into the car. I’m sprawled across both seats. I think I feel him raising my feet and pushing them in after me. Then I hear the door slam shut. The muscles of my arms and legs and chest are convulsing. I can’t control my movements. I can’t sit up. I can’t think.

  The passenger door opens and he climbs in beside me. I see his face above me. He’s frowning in concentration. There’s no compassion in his gaze now. There’s no hatred either. He’s just someone doing something he’s planned to do. And he’s doing it to me.

  He undoes the button on my cuff and pushes the sleeve of the blouse up to my elbow. I hear a sound of plastic being stretched and snapped. Then he’s holding a syringe above me and pushing the needle into a phial of clear liquid. He’s wearing surgical gloves. I try to squirm away from him, but I can’t. I try to scream. But no sound comes.

  The light changes behind him in that instant. A shadow. A blur of movement. Someone grabs him by the shoulder and wrenches him backwards, away from me. The syringe and phial slip from Roger’s hands. He’s pulled right out of the car, falling heavily to the ground. I hear the breath forced from his mouth by the impact.

  My muscles are still twitching. I can’t control them. But I manage to swivel my neck just enough to see Duncan Forrester standing over Roger. Judging by the angle of his knee, he’s got his boot jammed against Roger’s chest. He’s clutching a gun with both hands and pointing it at Roger.

  He glances fleetingly at me. ‘Take it easy,’ he says. ‘You’ll feel better soon.’ Then he looks back down at Roger. ‘What’s in the phial?’

  There’s no immediate answer, so Forrester presses his foot down harder. Roger groans. ‘OK, OK,’ he gasps. ‘You win. Morphine.’

  ‘That’s not enough for a fatal dose. You must have more phials with you.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you’d have gone on injecting her until the job was done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve seen what’s under the tarpaulin. Did you kill them?’ Them? God, who’s Forrester talking about?

  ‘Not me,’ Roger replies.

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Marianne, probably. Or her goon, Scaddan.’

  ‘But not here.’

  ‘No. We decided to move the car.’

  ‘And set Nicole up to look as if she killed them, then drove here and killed herself.’

  ‘The police would have settled for that in the end.’

  ‘Why Nicole?’

  ‘She was at Admiral’s Reach last night. She must’ve tipped Marianne off. But she was also involved in planting a bug on Vogler. I couldn’t be sure of her allegiances. Or how much she knows.’ Roger couldn’t be sure of my allegiances? What about his? Who is he working for? Who’s the we who decided to move the car?

  ‘But the bug was Ursula Kendall’s idea,’ Forrester presses on.

  ‘I never thought she’d try something like that. She’s just a glorified tax inspector. Way out of her depth.’

  ‘So, you frame Nicole to tie off the Vogler end of things. Where does that leave Joe?’

  ‘Safe in our hands. We couldn’t let the Americans get him. He’s far too valuable.’ It sounds like Roger has some security service connection. And so, apparently, does Forrester.

  ‘You’ll persuade him he has to cooperate in order to get the police to drop the case against him.’

  ‘You seem to know all about it.’

  ‘What I know is how you’ve been trained.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘No one you’ve ever heard of. Who’s running this operation?’

  ‘Hexter.’

  ‘He should’ve been pensioned off by now.’ So, Forrester knows Roger’s boss, from way back, apparently.

  ‘Well, he hasn’t been.’

  ‘Did he recruit you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Hong Kong.’

  ‘I might’ve guessed.’ There’s no doubt, then. Forrester and Hexter are connected by something in the past.

  ‘What are you to him?’

  ‘A threat. But not as big a one as he is to me.’ Forrester glances towards me. ‘Can you move yet, Nicole?’

  I try to straighten my left arm. It obeys. There are still lots of twitches and spasms, but the pain’s almost gone. ‘I … I can, yesh.’ My voice is slurred. My tongue and lips feel as if I’m coming round from an injection at my dentist’s.

  ‘I need the key to your car.’

  ‘Wha … what …’

  ‘You have to trust me. Everything will be all right if you do that. Where’s the key?’

  Should I trust him? The question forms and then dissolves in my mind. Roger would have killed me if Forrester hadn’t intervened. ‘In … my pocket.’ I try to reach into the pocket of my trousers. My fingers aren’t working properly yet, though. I can’t do it. But I can push the key out with the heel of my hand.

  ‘Pass it to me as best you can.’

  I fumble around and work my hand under the key so it’s resting in my palm. Then I stretch out awkwardly in his direction. He reaches across the seat and takes it.

  ‘I’ll be back soon.’ He steps cautiously to one side. ‘Get up,’ he says to Roger, keeping the revolver trained on him. ‘Slowly.’

  Roger sits up, then rises to his feet. Slowly, as instructed.

  ‘Toss your phone and the stun gun into the car.’

  Roger does as he’s told and tosses them on to the seat next to me. Fleetingly, our eyes meet. I can read no sympathy in his gaze, no regret – other than regret that his plan’s gone wrong.

  ‘Walk slowly ahead of me to Nicole’s car,’ says Forrester.

  They set off. I manage to prop myself up on one elbow and watch them go. Feeling’s returning to my toes and fingers and lips now. With a struggle, I grasp the steering-wheel and pull myself up into a sitting position. My head swims for a moment, then settles. I draw a few deep breaths. I’m going to be all right. I’m alive. But as to what happens next …

  I’m not sure how long I stay there, gazing weakly through the windscreen at the cottage, the overgrown outhouses, the grey-blue water and the sloping green fields on the other side of the river, trying hard, so very hard, not to think about what’s behind me, in the back of the car.

  Then Forrester returns. He opens the door on my side and looks in at me. He’s no longer carrying the revolver. Instead, he has my handbag looped over his arm.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask, my voice sounding normal again, though husky.

  ‘You know who I am.’

  ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘I’ve locked Lam in the boot of your car. They’ll find him eventually. By then, we need to be long gone.’

  ‘Whose bodies are behind me, under the tarpaulin?’

  ‘Conrad Vogler and your colleague, Carl Hinkley. Both shot through the back of the head.’

  Carl dead. And Conrad Vogler. My God. How did it come to this? ‘Was it you who let me out of the cupboard at Admiral’s Reach?’ I can’t think who else it could have been.

  ‘Yes. I watched Marianne leave with Scaddan. I went in to see if you were OK. And to remove anything that could make things look bad for Joe. In case the house was searched.’

  ‘It was. This morning.’

  ‘They won’t have found much. As far as I could tell, Marianne took everything important with her. Presumably because you told her HMRC had a recording of Conrad’s meeting with his Clearing House boss.’

  ‘I had no choice but to tell her.’

  ‘I believe you
.’

  ‘How do you know about the Clearing House?’

  ‘I know what I need to know.’

  ‘Did Marianne really kill them? Carl? And her own husband?’

  ‘She’s not one to shrink from whatever action she judges necessary to protect herself. The recording you helped Ursula obtain made it all too likely Conrad would do a deal in return for a light sentence. The Clearing House would have done whatever they needed to do to stop that happening. And that would have included silencing Marianne. So, she decided to take the initiative by silencing Conrad. I’m afraid your friend Carl was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ And I could have been there with him, if he hadn’t cut me out of the party. Christ, what an irony. ‘Over dinner Conrad had probably negotiated a payment he planned to use as getaway money. But Marianne obviously decided that didn’t give her enough protection.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Carl wouldn’t have known much about it. If that’s any comfort.’

  ‘Not much. Who does Roger work for?’

  ‘The Intelligence Services.’

  ‘Like you used to?’

  ‘We don’t have time for a leisurely inquest, Nicole. We need to leave here. On foot. I’ve got a Land Rover parked on a track three fields away. Think you can make that?’

  ‘Why don’t we just call the police?’

  ‘Because you’re a marked woman now. A security risk, as the powers that be see it. That’s why Lam was ordered to kill you. Do you live alone?’

  It feels as if he already knows the answer. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’ll make it easy for them. Compulsory sick leave from Venstrom. A note on your file by the company doctor saying he’s worried about your state of mind. Then a neighbour will find you dead in bed, with empty blister packs of painkillers scattered around the room. Suicide. If at first you don’t succeed …’